


Roll Here In My Ashes

by fireafterall



Series: Wasteland, Baby! [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Almost (Sweet Music), Angst, Crowley Plays Piano, I Decided To Write A Fic For Every Song On Hozier's Wasteland Baby!, Nightmares, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireafterall/pseuds/fireafterall
Summary: Crowley goes to play the piano in Aziraphale's bookshop in the aftermath of a nightmare.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wasteland, Baby! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545565
Kudos: 20





	Roll Here In My Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I haven't posted anything in a while because in the last five months I dropped out of college and moved back in with my parents which kind of sucked and I didn't write for about three months. This fic was mostly written before the three month deadzone and then finifhed up only recently so I apologize if it is messy.
> 
> I am still planning to write some more of these Hozier's Wasteland, Baby! fics, so hopefully I'll get more posted soon. As always this is unedited and I would really appreciate comments on what I'm doing well / what I could improve. I hope you are having a good day / night and staying safe in these scary times.
> 
> Title taken from Almost (Sweet Music).

Crowley hardly remembered learning to play the piano, but at some point he had, and since then it had never truly let him go.

It must have been in the nineteenth century sometime, though possibly late in it, as after a few years of playing he had purchased one for himself that had only existed in the flat he currently resided in.

He hadn’t learned from a master composer or other famous pianist, and he couldn’t remember, either, what had possessed him to learn at all but the feeling of it. Yes, possessed was the right word, the sound took root inside him somehow.

And unlike every other person on the Earth he, well, wasn’t a person and as such had all the time in the world to learn it.

He worked through every piece of Beethoven first, then Chopin, then Debussey; who was still alive at the time. He had loved to watch the man in concert.

Throughout all this, over several decades, he hadn’t owned a piano but had simply taken lessons from whoever was in the area at the time. Well whoever was in the area that he could tolerate. It was usually a small number. 

He put up with the instructor's presence only for the chance to use the instrument and after several decades of this he realized that he could have simply bought one of his own and not have had to bother with any of it. 

He would have miracled one up but he somehow didn’t trust himself to get it right.

And once it was in his home; he unexpectedly began to write.

He hadn’t started on purpose but at some point he had to acknowledge his ‘messing about’ for hours on end, was really nothing more or less than composing. And, very surprising to him, he seemed to be good at it.

A demon artist; how many more ways could he find to disappoint hell.

And it was with that fear in mind that he passed his music off to others. He supposed if downstairs ever found out he could call it pride or some other sin, pretending it didn’t hurt him to do so. Even if he didn’t have that to worry about, he most likely wouldn’t have performed it himself anyway. Being on stage didn’t suit him for a number of reasons; including that anything he did in the spotlight would be recorded in some form or other, most likely at the time, a picture in the newspaper, and he really didn’t want to worry about things like that.

Though mostly the demon just didn’t particularly like being looked at. At all.

So his music was played by others, around London and around the world. 

Initially, he went sometimes, if the venue was close, but after a while it grew tiresome; he always heard things he wished he had written differently and then spent the whole rest of the performance pissy.

But the writing, oh the writing, it was pure joy. So much so that it felt  _ embarrassing. _ Demons didn’t get to feel things like this and yet, and yet.

Crowley didn’t own one anymore and in fact he hardly thought about it. Or he tried not to.

In the sixties, when Aziraphale had given him that holy water, despite his parting line with that devastated look upon his face, Crowley had somehow thought that with the whole dispute behind them, they would grow closer. They had been before the 1862 falling out and he…

Well he believed perhaps the angel felt  _ something  _ for him. Enough that they could spend time together. And he had, embarrassing as it was to him now, decorated his flat accordingly.

Anything he had seen that he thought the angel might like he purchased. Soft creamy rugs that blanketed the floors, gold accented decorations that served no purpose besides aesthetic, the kitchen was filled with plates and glasses and silverware that the demon never used though he knew Aziraphale liked it. Even his plants had first come into his home in this season of wild buying. 

And indeed as much as he said he was doing it for the angel, he had to begrudgingly admit that with all these new additions, it really did feel like a home.

Of all his purchases though, there was nothing he liked half so well as the piano.

To call it huge felt wrong, made it seem too bulky when really its size somehow added to its elegance. Crowley wasn’t embarrassed to appreciate the beauty of Earth, and he certainly found beauty in this instrument.

While his old piano had been rather cheap and, even in the sixties extremely outdated, not to mention an ugly brown that clashed with his whole aesthetic, his  _ new _ piano was sleek shining and black as sin.

The sound was better too, and, upon purchasing, he disappeared inside his flat for days, just playing and playing and playing.

And it was still joy but it was pain too.

He couldn’t escape the knowledge that he had purchased it for Aziraphale. Every blessed thing in the flat was for Aziraphale but Crowley was still alone.

You go too fast for me Crowley.

Alone in his no longer empty flat the words seemed to echo off all the furniture and knick knacks he would have never picked out for himself.

You go too fast for me Crowley.

He barely saw the angel over the next few years, next few decades. The cozy objects that had made him, for the first time ever, love the place he lived, began to disappear. Every object was imbued with bitterness now, and he hated to look at them.

What had he thought; an angel could love a demon? He was pathetic.

And so, out went the functioning kitchen and the posh rugs and all the pillows on his bed. Out went the art and the wallpaper until all that was left was the piano. 

One beautiful thing in this flat of newly painted black walls, and stone statues attached to memories.

He didn’t play it anymore but all the same it stayed. He wasn’t like Aziraphale who constantly changed the bookshop; buying and selling furniture and moving his things around. No, the piano only stayed because, at his core, Crowley was a creature of habit.

Yes, that’s certainly what he told himself.

Sometimes he played it still. His fingers still remembered every song he’d ever played; every line he’d ever written.

He nearly hoped that Aziraphale would never visit the flat. That he wouldn’t have to explain the beautiful piano in the midst of, whatever this place he lived in was. A proper place for a demon; place only, never a home.

And indeed, the angel didn’t.

Crowley would hang around the bookshop sometimes, but after a while he grew to despise himself for even that. He would swear Aziraphale was increasingly distracted, that he increasingly didn’t want him here, or perhaps even worse didn’t notice.

He wanted to scream at him sometimes.

But he never would, too much explanation after all so instead he poked and prodded and irritated.

Crowley was so tired. Of all of it. 

And so one day, after Aziraphale had seemed particularly distracted and uncaring, well uncaring towards him at least, the angel was never uncaring to the world at large, Crowley simply miracled the piano away.

Didn’t think too hard, just did it as he walked in the door then went to his, bare, dark, and lonely bed in the back and slept for two weeks.

In all that time the angel didn’t call.

\-----

More time passed then the world ended, or rather it didn’t, and everything changed.

Things between the angel and demon had improved after that night, eventually, and the almostgeddeon had, he hoped, bonded them together even more but Crowley had realized he couldn’t settle for that anymore.

Hell, he couldn’t  _ live _ with that anymore.

He loved Aziraphale and nearly losing him in that bookshop…

Crowley felt he couldn’t breathe.

It was the third Sunday after the world had started all over again, and the demon had awoken from nightmares as he had every night since the night he thought he’d lost Aziraphale.

Sitting up in his empty bed, feeling like he was choking, his corporation sweating an amount he hadn’t known was possible for a corporation, Crowley wished he could play piano.

It was a stupid instinct, he felt, and not just for a demon but anyone. Waking from a hellish nightmare to pluck about on an instrument somehow felt wrong. Perhaps the keys would refuse to sing under his hands in times like these. 

He somehow felt it wouldn’t but it didn’t matter anyway; he had nowhere to play.

Groaning he rose from the bed. He was getting sick and fucking tired of these night time flashbacks; a demon may not need sleep but damn if it didn’t  _ feel _ like he did.

He still wished to play.

“Fuck.” He said aloud to the empty room.

“How much more pathetic could this be, fuck!”

He wanted to play, he wanted Aziraphale.

He could still hear the bookshelves crashing around him and smell the smoke as he fought through the flames; looking for his angel.

Only this time, he found him.

Lying in a pool of blood, his wings charred down nearly to shreds and no breath in his lungs.

And every night, Crowley makes the mistake of assuming he’s dead.

But then he’s not; he coughs and he’s clearly dying but he’s still breathing and he’s still suffering and none of his miracles can fix this and Aziraphale is  _ choking  _ on  _ blood _ and then he wakes still smelling smoke and still feeling the angel’s blood on his hands.

He smacked his head against the wall but without any real feeling in it. Just trying to shake the image out of his mind.

He wanted Aziraphale.

As he walked from his bedroom to water his plants, the war raged in his mind. Bother Aziraphale and risk annoying him or stay here wallowing in his own thoughts.

If Aziraphale grew irritated with him again…

“Of course he could not have been mad at me in the first place, we don’t know,” he said to one particularly green plant as he watered it, “Perhaps he was simply distracted by other things that century.”

Though maybe Crowley was just hoping too hard. Heartless demon indeed.

Standing there in his empty flat of black walls with his head too full of smoke and his dying love, Crowley realized he really had nothing left to lose but his sanity; which would indeed be gone if he stayed here a moment longer.

He wanted to drive the Bentley but he felt too much of a mess, so he miracled his way there instead. Aziraphale usually had a piano somewhere on the first floor. Crowley had never asked about it because he knew if he did, he would play it and that had always felt too vulnerable.

But now was the time after the end of the world; the time of nightmares and of angels and demons and those in between and Crowley found he perhaps wouldn’t mind so much anymore. Not when it came to Aziraphale.

The piano was shoved into a corner as always; dusty and neglected. Crowley barely kept himself from talking to it but it was embarrassing enough that he spoke to his plants. Besides, he knew Aziraphale would find him soon.

He took one more deep breath in, reassuring himself that the bookshop was here and he was standing in it, then he sat down and, after miracling away the dust, began to play.

Crowely had thought he would start with a practice piece; he hadn’t played in so long after all, but what came out was a composition he’d written almost a century ago. Yet somehow, it felt he was writing it now. Or had written it for this exact moment.

It felt like a song for a demon in love with an angel as he sits in the dark playing the piano after a bad dream. 

There was a clatter followed by an “oh, bother” behind him and as he turned to face it, the light came on to illuminate Aziraphale holding a folded umbrella and the bookshop’s coat rack lying on the floor.

“Angel,” Crowley had to pause for a minute and make sure he was really reading the situation right, “Were you about to try and knock me out with an— an umbrella?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in a look the demon was trying not to read as condescending.

“Well no of course I wasn’t trying to knock  _ you _ out, I thought you were an intruder.”

“And— and the best you could come up with was an umbrella?” Despite the rough night he was having it was hard not to laugh in the face of this, “You can do miracles, angel, I am sorry but you are just being utterly ridiculous.”

Why could he never leave it be. Crowely was sure the angel didn’t mind him casually poking fun, but he hadn’t wanted to tonight. This conversation was going to be awkward enough without this preluded mocking.

He could see Aziraphale rallying a response but the demon interrupted to apologize.

“Alright, alright I’m sorry, I’m sure an umbrella would be a fine weapon,” he couldn’t help rolling his eyes while he said it though.

Stopped mid breath in and cut off from delivering his scolding, Aziraphle paused to look surprised for a moment, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“You apologized for that far too easily Crowley, are you quite all right my dear?”

The angel knew him better than he thought sometimes. It was lovely but somehow uncomfortable too. A little gross.

“Oh and for that matter, what in Heaven’s name are you doing here at— at,” he paused to read the clock on the wall, “three in the morning, Crowley!”

“And, wait—” the angel did another double take, “You play the piano? My piano? At three in the—” he sighed, “I believe you have much to explain, my dear.”

Crowley didn’t want to remain sitting where he was so he stood up, leaning against the piano. This was actually more awkward but it was too late to sit back down again without making everything still worse and, ah fuck, why was he always like this around Aziraphale.

“Well to begin; yes I do play the piano.”

“What was that you were playing when I walked in? I, uh, rather liked it.”

The demon tried to keep the proud smile from his face, “Well, it was, hm, something I wrote angel. A long time ago.”

The angel’s eyes widened and with his mouth dropping slightly open as it did, his face was the perfect picture of surprise. 

“You  _ wrote _ that. I didn’t even know you played at all and— you said it was a long time ago?”

Crowley laughed slightly, “Yes, angel I’ve been playing for a long time.”

“Could I, I mean maybe,” Aziraphale was closer to him now, “Could I maybe hear some more?”

Anything for Aziraphale.

“Hm, well, I suppose so.”

He sat back down at the piano knowing the other questions would come later and he would have to tell him all of it. But for now, he played.

Humans had an expression for it he knew, something about never forgetting how to ride a bike, or other nonsense. And this was, he supposed, like that. In his fingers, his hands, it was easy,  _ it was so easy,  _ it was in his mind that the true battle lay.

What piece to play for an angel? What would he enjoy— no, that wasn’t the question. Aziraphale would love anything he played or, at least, say that he did. 

What piece to play for an angel he loved when all Crowley had  _ ever  _ done, century after century, was push him away. What piece to play that wouldn’t crack the demon open to his core, laying him bare for Aziraphale to see.

The angel clearly saw him hesitating, how could he not notice how long his hands hovered above the keys, just brushing them gently with no sound emerging. He reached as if to place his hand on Crowley’s shoulder then pulled back as if he thought he would scare him away.

“Just, keep playing what you were when I walked in, my dear. I’ll be quiet, you won’t even know I’m here.”

For the second time this evening, and perhaps for only the second time in all the days since the world didn’t end, Crowley had to fight off a laugh. Not notice Aziraphale? The demon would see him, would feel him, would  _ know _ him, even after the world had gone ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

He placed his fingers on the keys and, for Aziraphale, he played.

His fingers took him back to the beginning and he started the song over again; hardly breathing as he felt its rises and falls and disasters and rebirths and throughout all of it imbedded something he hadn’t even realized he had felt; hope.

It was a song of hope, even in the melancholy, and he hoped the angel heard it for what it was.

He hoped so much he almost prayed.

When it was over, Crowley sat there feeling exhausted, but a bit better. Playing had felt like telling the angel how he felt; like catharsis.

A hand touched his shoulder. Tentative at first, then stronger, and then like Crowley’s shoulder was the only thing grounding Aziraphale to the world.

“Crowley that was, well I just— ,” the angel stuttered out, “I never knew you could make a thing so beautiful my dear.”

The demon turned and said what was in his open and bleeding heart; 

“It was for you, Aziraphale, it was all for you.”

Then the angel, his beautiful, wonderful angel, threw his arms around him and laid his head on the demon’s bony shoulder to cry.

“When everything-- when it all, oh dear,” Aziraphale stopped to blow his nose on a miracled up handkerchief before continuing.  “To think if it had all ended when it should have, I would have never known.” 

He drew back to smile slightly, “Perhaps God kept us around a little longer just for me to hear this Crowley, do you— do you think She might have?”

The demon sighed, “Aziraphale, even if the world  _ had _ ended it wouldn’t have been Her fault, it would have been mine. I was just, scared I guess.”

The angel just held him tighter.

“You know you don’t have to be scared Crowley, never of me,” Aziraphale murmured from somewhere over the demon’s right shoulder, “All I want, all I’ve ever wanted, was for us to be together, but I was scared too. So scared, I’m— I’m sorry.”

His voice wavered at the end and Crowley untangled his arms to wrap them around Aziraphale, finally.

So the angel and the demon sat on that piano bench, in a bookshop, in Soho, holding each other, as the demon realized with Aziraphale in bed lying next to him, he would never again have to fear the nightmares.


End file.
